Clocks
by mercuriosity
Summary: For every action, there are consequences.


Clocks 

Crowley, Aziraphale and all other things _Good Omens_ belong to Messrs. Gaiman and Pratchett. I'm just borrowing them for a little angsty fun. 

Feedback? I'll kiss you. 

--- 

_the lights go out and i can't be saved  
tides that i tried to swim against  
have brought me down upon my knees  
oh i beg, i beg and plead (singing)_  
~ "clocks," coldplay 

He should have realized they wouldn't get a happy ending. He should have known there would be complications. And part of him did know it, even as the dust was settling down and he'd started hoping things could go back to normal. 

Consequences. For every action, there were always consequences. And when the action was killing a fellow demon, the consequences were swift (insofar as the bureaucracy of Hell dealt with anything swiftly), severe and, most of all, thorough. 

They didn't kill him. Oh, no. They'd let that come naturally. 

Hastur grinned evilly at him as he was escorted back out through the gates by two burly, taciturn demons. 

"Why Crowley," he said. "If I din't know better, I'd say you was leaving us a changed man." 

Crowley didn't respond. Hastur's smile, if anything, became wider. 

"Dun't look so glum," he continued. "Remember that today is the first day of the rest of your life." 

Crowley couldn't help it; he flinched. The guards dragged him silently onward. 

"Lovely seein' you, Crowley," Hastur crowed at his back. "You _must_ visit again some time." And he laughed. 

The gates shut behind Crowley with the sound of finality, and he gave up the pretense of strength, of indifference, falling to his knees. He knew Hastur was right. He would be back; he couldn't escape it now. 

He stood up, eventually, dusted himself off. It seemed he would be taking the long way home this time. 

--- 

He was woken in the early hours of the morning by sharp, stabbing pains deep in his gut. He didn't have a name for this pain, this gnawing ache in his belly, forcefully reminding him of all the metaphorical pitchforks of Hell turned against him at once. What was this? 

He realized he hadn't had any dinner that night. In fact, he wasn't sure when the last time was that he'd really eaten anything. There were those last few biscuits in the package that afternoon, the ones he'd eaten just so he could throw the foil bag away, and that half a shrimp appetizer the night before, but that was all he could think of. He didn't think liquor counted. 

It wasn't that he was unfamiliar with food, so to speak. But food, before, had always been a bit of a lark, an indulgence. A little temptation, when he looked at Aziraphale over his sunglasses and said, "Come on, _try_ it. You'll _like_ it." It had never been that high on his list of Important Things, certainly never something he couldn't do without, if he had to. 

Not like now. 

Nothing like now, stumbling out of bed at a quarter past two in the bloody morning, rubbing his arms for warmth and shivering in the cold air of his flat. Fumbling for a light switch after a stubbed toe or three, cursing the whole time. Nothing like this, tearing open every cupboard door and ransacking the refrigerator and realizing he didn't have a damned thing that qualified as real food. Extravagant things that cost too much and left you feeling empty, sweets that you knew were bad for you but just couldn't resist--these were what he knew. 

He did the best he could. He ate most of what was left of the coffee ice cream in the freezer, half a box of chocolate-covered cherries, three slices of some cheese or another (he was trying hard not to taste anything by then). He washed it all down with water from the tap, because it was the only thing to drink that wasn't alcoholic. He crawled back into bed, considered that maybe he ought to brush his teeth and then thought, Fuck it, he was just going to rot anyway, what was the bloody point? He curled up on his side, feeling acutely miserable, and tried to ignore the beginnings of a stomachache. 

When he looked up again, the alarm clock by his bed read three minutes to four. He ripped the cord out of the wall with calm precision and went back to waiting. 

--- 

Crowley hadn't brought himself to tell the angel yet. 

He ignored the stop sign on the corner, rounded the curve too fast. Some things, at least, hadn't changed. But it was a different sort of recklessness that propelled him on now. Before, he'd known he would emerge unscathed. Now, he just didn't care. 

He'd have to tell Aziraphale eventually, he supposed, but he kept finding reasons not to. And when he ran out of reasons, he started putting it off just because. 

He felt his eyes sliding shut, started up and shook himself. Tired. That was a new feeling. It was a constant struggle now between the need for sleep and his newfound sense of urgency. He'd caught himself yawning the other day and thought he'd just take a little nap to refresh himself, just rest his eyes for a minute. When he woke up three hours later, the cool green numbers on his VCR staring him unabashedly in the face, he had a full-blown panic attack. Three hours gone. Three _hours_ that he'd never, ever get back. 

He'd slept through an entire century once, just because he could. Now every second was precious. And everywhere he looked: clocks, clocks, always with the bloody clocks. On the wall, on his microwave, by his bed, relentlessly counting and discarding the time of his existence. Every tick echoed inside him like a bullet to the heart. 

He was driving twenty miles over the speed limit now. A glance at his watch told him he was going to be late meeting Aziraphale anyway. He felt an immense sense of satisfaction as, two seconds later, the watch went flying out the window of the Bentley. 

--- 

"Crowley?" 

Aziraphale was looking at him, concern visible in his eyes. 

"Is something wrong? You're awfully quiet today." 

Crowley stared at his untouched glass of Pinot Gris. 

"No," he said, knowing it sounded hollow and stupid, not caring enough to even lie properly. "Nothing's wrong." 

Aziraphale did not look convinced, but he politely refrained from saying so, only taking another sip of his wine. The silence stretched between them until Aziraphale blinked, setting his glass down again. 

"Crowley," he said, "what happened to your watch?" 

And if the other patrons in the restaurant turned to stare at Crowley's suddenly knocked-over chair, the door that slammed behind him as he fled from the restaurant, their confusion was nothing compared to Aziraphale's. The angel sat, mystified, and wondered where on Earth Crowley was off to in such a hurry. 

--- 

Alone, Crowley didn't bother to maintain even the appearance of coolness. Inwardly and outwardly he seethed. 

Damn the angel. Damn him, damn him, _damn_ him. He didn't want Aziraphale to know, and at the same time he knew there was no hiding it from him, not for long. He'd find out and be so utterly compassionate and heartbroken; he'd probably even cry a little. And that was the last thing he wanted--Aziraphale's compassion, his empathy. That was the last thing he wanted to know, that someone else would be miserable, that someone would care when he was gone. As if he needed another burden. As if he needed something to make it even harder. 

He'd just resolved not to show any weakness, no sign of sorrow or regret, when there was a knock on the door, and he had to grip the wall to support suddenly shaky legs. He stumbled backwards and sank down onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands. 

There was another knock on the door. Crowley said nothing, didn't move. 

"Crowley? Are you there? It's me." 

More knocking, sounding slightly desperate. "Crowley?" 

"It's open." 

There was a pause, and then Aziraphale opened the door and poked his head into the flat, vague concern written all over his face. 

"Crowley?" he said, lingering uncomfortably in the doorway. "Are you not feeling well?" He paused. Was it even possible for Crowley to feel ill? "What's wrong?" 

Interminable seconds passed before Crowley raised his head and took off his sunglasses. 

"Oh," Aziraphale gasped, little more than an exhalation of breath, as two perfectly ordinary eyes the color of cinnamon looked into his. 

"Clocks," Crowley said. "Clocks are what's wrong." 

Aziraphale was mercifully silent as he came over to where Crowley sat, offering no comfort but his arms, no sympathy but his hand stroking Crowley's hair over and over again as Crowley forgot what he'd promised himself and buried his face in the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale held him, rocking him gently back and forth like the child he'd never been. He didn't ask any questions, for which Crowley was thankful. For a long time, they simply sat. 

Crowley started to laugh. 

"Er," said Aziraphale, looking rather alarmed. 

Crowley's shoulders were shaking now, and it was hard to tell if he were truly laughing or crying, or both. He grabbed fistfuls of Aziraphale's shirt in his hands and laughed and laughed, tapering off after a while into weak giggles. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said. "What is it?" 

Crowley hiccuped into the front of Aziraphale's shirt. His response, when it came, was muffled, but Aziraphale understood. 

"I have to use the lavatory." 

"Oh." A pause. "_Oh_." 

_the lights go out and i can't be saved  
tides that i tried to swim against  
have brought me down upon my knees  
oh i beg, i beg and plead singing  
_

come out of things unsaid  
shoot an apple off my head  
and a trouble that can't be named  
a tiger's waiting to be tamed singing  


you are  
you are  


confusion never stops  
closing walls and ticking clocks  
gonna come back and take you home  
i could not stop that you now know  
singing come out upon my seas  
cursed missed opportunities  
am i a part of the cure   
or am i part of the disease singing  


you are  
you are  
you are  
you are  


you are  
you are  


and nothing else compares  
and nothing else compares  
and nothing else compares  


you are  
you are  


home home where i wanted to go  
home home where i wanted to go  
home home where i wanted to go  
home home where i wanted to go 


End file.
